July 1, 2003
Ten months. Ten months absent from this space. Iíve mourned the dissolution of my writing partnership. Iíve fought the dissolution of my body. Iíve reveled in the ripening of my new marriage. But I havenít finished a script since my Scrubs spec 16 months ago.
The dream of writing for television is distant now. Focus has become a highly valued commodity. And although I struggle in fits and starts with the feature script I work on now, it is as if the words are caught in a maelstrom, at times being violently whisked from my grasp while at others hitting me upside my head before I have an opportunity to record them.
Four docking stations down from me at the Library of Science, Industry and Business in New York City where I am typing this journal entry sits a young woman furiously hammering out words as if Death were chasing her to the finish line. Her face is pained, the task before her repulsive in its urgency. An angry response to her boyfriend, caught hours ago post-coitus with her pet Capuchin monkey? A UN brief on a juntaís imminent slaughter of the local populace? A last will and testament unveiling her complete hatred and disdain for the way her relatives treated her as she was dying of an incurable disease? No. It is a term paper on mollusks. A letter complaining about the lemon of a car she bought. A lengthy never-ending list of tasks for her and her roommates. Thatís what life is. What it has become for me.
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